


With Love, Violet

by PatientPixie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dungeon, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Female Domination, Femdom, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Mistress, Multi, Narcissa is a good mom, Pegging, Plot With Porn, Redemption, Sex Work, Slow Burn, This may have been a mistake, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26505340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatientPixie/pseuds/PatientPixie
Summary: The Chateau had always been a mystery to Draco Malfoy; never the prude, he knew what it was, a BDSM dungeon and gentleman's club. Hell, his best friend has worked there for years. But after recognizing a certain set of brunette curls in a photo, Draco is determined to find out where Hermione Granger has been hiding for the last 8 years, seeking redemption in doing so.Writing under an alias, Hermione Granger had created a life for herself, a life with girls she loves and a career that frees her. She did not realize how much would change the day that Draco Malfoy walked through the lounge of the Chateau, seeking her services.(porn with plot)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 25
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

Aside from the recurring nightmares, Draco lived a good life.

He worked painstakingly long hours as an auror, specializing heavily in the investigation aspects of criminal cases, with his colleagues joking that he wouldn’t leave the office even if he had a wand to his head. He sent his mother once a week, visiting her for lunch twice a month. His mortgage was paid, food on the table any time that he wanted, and kept decent communication with his friends from school. To the outward eye, Draco wasn’t just living a charmed life, he was living a happy life. Anybody who was in his immediate circle though could see that he had changed from the arrogant, boisterous young adult he was before the ending of the war 8 years prior. 

As he lay in bed, eyes screwed shut in what could only be described as agony, Draco re-lived the life that he wished he had never set foot into. Images of his friends fighting to death on the grounds as bits of ash floated through the air played over and over, the bodies of his classmates across the grounds. Their eyes were never closed; glassy and staring straight ahead. It wasn’t until all these years later that the knowledge that they were just kids slipped into place. These were standard for his nightmares. As the scene changed, he watched in third person as Hermione Granger’s body writhed on the ground in agony, his aunt delighted in her suffering. The screams were something that could bring a chill down his spine to this day, and sometimes induce nausea. Sweat and blood clung to her brow, and she could hear the crack of bones as they painfully ground against one another. When he awoke, gasping for air and soaked in cold sweat, all that he felt in his bones was regret. He had lived like this for 8 years, and it didn’t get a shred easier as he got older. Sometimes, the nightmares felt as though he was floating through fog; dulled, slow, able to be fought off. For most though, it was like sticking his head directly into a cauldron of pensive, unable to pull away even for a moment.

As Draco peeled himself from the soaked sheets, wrinkling his nose in disgust, he pushed his damp hair back and thought of what to do. A cursory glance at his clock showed that it was well past 2 in the morning, and there was no use in trying to sleep at this point. Instead, he picked up a small box that lived in his dresser, filled with photos and memories from the years. They ranged from things as simple as photos of him and his mother, to memorabilia that his friends had sent him. On the top of the stack lay the newest photo, of his long-time childhood friend and ex girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson. Pansy had changed from the greasy, aggressive snob that she had once been into someone who looked like they could model every single day of their life. She grew into her features, her face that was once described as being “flat” sharpening out into high cheekbones and a button nose. Out of all of his friends, she had remained the closest, and they often exchanged snap shots of their life to each other. He grinned at the photo of her, her eyes bright and skin flushed, likely from the bottle of firewhisky she held in her grasp. The one thing that he could never get over, however, was her profession. Pansy Parkinson had grown from the uppity, cold girl who everyone swore would be involved in politics, turned into a girl that was paid to be the life of a party: an exotic dancer and sex worker. 

Draco didn’t pry too much. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, or was prudish, but that this was a girl he grew up with, and even when he saw pictures of living what she called “her best life”, he couldn’t forget the booger eating 10 year old he knew stepping onto platform 9 ¾ decades ago. What he did know was that she was paid well and made good money doing what she did. Exotic dancing wasn’t her only area of work, and she dabbled into photographs (sold at high rates) and escort work. He wasn’t a stranger to this world; sex work was legal,wasn’t the tabboo that it was 10 years ago, and he was the last person to be judging. Draco knew only the facts: she had been working at The Chateau for two years, offered a selection of services, and was fiercely private about her co-workers and clientele. 

His fingers ran along the edges of the photo, a small smile tugging at his cheeks and causing the corners of his eyes to crease. Of all the people who deserved to be happy after the shitshow of a war, Pansy was the one. Something caught his eye in this particular photo, a detail he hadn’t noticed before. While Pansy was obviously the main focus, a girl stood in the back of the shot, a sense of deja-vu pouring over his mind. Something about this girl was familiar, not from her outfit, but from her stance. The woman stood with her back to the camera, shoulders square and her high-heeled clad feet spread, black pants hugging her slender frame. Movement gave him partial clues to the identity of this mystery woman, someone he had not paid any mind to in the many times he had seen her in the background of shots with Pansy. Maybe it was the nightmare fresh in his mind, or the concentration, but it finally came together who this woman was. The curly brown hair that hung wildly into the small of her back was undeniable, and after 8 years, Draco Malfoy finally realized where Hermione Granger had been all of these years. 

Rubbing his palms over his lids in disbelief, he nearly gawked at the image; after all this time, he hadn’t even realized who the woman was; or even noticed her to begin with. The curls hadn’t been smoothed in the slightest, and in fact, they appeared to have grown wilder and bouncier, as if she had embraced the textures. A thick flogger hung from her left hip, almost blending in with the leather had it not wound on its own; magic really was one hell of a thing, and it waved slyly to whoever was out of the shot of the camera. This was not real; this was not happening, and he couldn’t help but laugh as the nervous energy bubbled through his chest and up to the knot that was quickly forming in his throat. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he zoomed in on the edges of the photo and snapped a quick photo. “Call me” was all the text he sent to Parkinson read. 

****

o-o-o-o

It took Pansy a few hours to respond, and while he anxiously waited, he went about his business making his morning tea. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and the mountain of paperwork on his desk from a drug trafficking case wasn’t simply going to vanish (no matter how much he wished it would; there were more important crimes out there than some idiots selling small amounts of Buffalo Brain elixir). The harsh sound of ringing cut through the whistle of the kettle, and he snatched his phone quickly.  
He could barely get a word in, as Pansy was already screeching at him over the music he heard in the background. “What’s got your panties in a wad at 2:30, Malfoy?” He could hear her laughing, likely at another girl in the club; it just made him more irritated. “Cut the shit, Pansy, you know why I called?”. A huff on the other line, and the music was starting to fade a bit. She must be going somewhere quieter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You can’t send a picture like that with no context and expect me to drop what I’m doing,” he could hear the smugness in her tone as she finished, “some of us actually have to work instead of being a desk jockey.” While he knew it was in good fun, the comment did dig at his insecurity. This was a fight for another day. “Does Hermione Granger work at the Chateau?”

She answered quickly, too quickly, and there was no longer any background noise except for some faint words echoed on the other line. “I have no idea what you’re talking about”. Draco gritted his teeth, balancing his phone on his shoulder to pour steaming liquid into his mug. “Don’t fucking lie to me right now, Pansy, or I swear to God-” Her deep laugh sounded on the other line. “Ooooh, I like when you threaten me! What are you gonna do, treat me like a very bad girl?”. Discomfort pierced through him, she knew how to push all his buttons. Everything was innuendo for her, fair game, and while the idea of a night with the “Vixen” as she called herself was tempting, she would always just be his Pansy Parkinson, nothing more. “I’m not in the mood, god dammit! Just fucking answer the question!” He spat into the phone.

Silence met him, for about 10 seconds. The voices in the background also seemed to lull and he hoped she wasn’t on speaker. Her voice returned to its normal timber, almost a little flat. “I cannot give information about the members here. I will lose my job, and I sure as fuck won’t lose it because YOU are nosy.” His pale fingers gripped the teacup a bit harder, though he slowed his breathing. “Can you just tell me if I’m right? For fuck’s sake Pansy, the girl all but dropped off the face of the Earth. You can’t expect me to just forget her or the Golden Trio after- “ he stopped himself, almost finishing _after all we’ve been through._ They didn’t owe him anything. 

“Leave it alone, Draco. Please. She doesn’t need you barging into her life and ruining things like a twat.”

The line went dead, and Draco was left to stare once more at the leather-clad Hermione Granger, the whip beckoning him to make a visit to the Chateau. At a surface level, he didn’t know why he wanted to see this ordeal in person. Maybe it was the absurdity of the prudish woman he once knew working alongside his boisterous best friend. Subconsciously though, it was clear what he wanted: Redemption. A chance to clear the weight off his shoulders. An opportunity to one day rid him of the nightmares that came like clockwork every single night.


	2. Intrigue

Draco did manage to get a few hours of sleep early in the morning; he was off on Saturdays, able to chip into paperwork if he chose to or simply take his time. 6 days a week he worked as an auror and it just made his head heavier as time passed. One could only stare at cases for so long before their eyes went crossed, and he was beginning to feel that way in the department; stuck. The plateau not only weighed down his work, but also his days. No longer did he read before bed, or call Blaise for a game of chess. It was straight to bed after scarfing down leftovers, occasionally a call to Narcissa who kept such close tabs on her son that he still felt suffocated. A mother’s guilt was a fickle thing, and one that he wished didn’t bear on him every time he answered her calls.

When he awoke though, everything about him was jittery. He had only visited the Chateau once before, to drop off a set of clothes and a wad of cash for Pansy. Even then, he wasn’t allowed to step foot into the building nor address her by name; she had met him at the curb, stood on the very toe of her heels to plant a quick kiss on his forehead, and bolted back into the club with fervor. It was clear how much she loved it there from how she discussed it with him, but he had never bothered to actually explore the depths of the large building. 

Slipping on a pair of dark, sleek robes, he held the photo in his hands once more. To say he wasn’t curious about the type of work Granger did exactly in this club would be a bold faced lie; each member had a specific set of talents. Pansy’s was her bubbly personality combined with flexibility, allure being the way she slid around the pole like it was an extension of her body. Once she even begged him to give it a try, but to him, there was no reason why a man like him would need to spin around the damned chrome thing. Based on the small photo, it was clear Hermione wasn’t playing the innocent role his friend once did. No, that quality of leather was reserved for those who were more domineering in their sexual endeavors. The details were starting to stand out more; the flogger consisted of 9 long strands, each braided and thick. The heels she donned were thick soled, laced tight against strong and slender legs. Even her shape had filled out slightly, the curves more accentuated.

A quick search of an online directory gave him only vague details of each dancer; their photo was not used, but simply an outline of their form, a description of their services, and a teaser quote the website seemed to use to draw clients in. Pansy’s was easily recognizable; “Daisy”, though highly unoriginal in his opinion, was the dancer persona and name that she absolutely adored using. He scrolled through dozens of descriptions, finding all of them varied and unique; men seemed to also be available for certain clientele, advertised as anything from a “dom” to a “sub”. At the bottom of the screen though, the outline of voluminous hair caught his attention, the flogger seemingly to be a trend as it hung from the hip of the anonymous “model”.

She went by Jade, and Draco wracked his brain to remember anything that he could regarding the name. It came up blank; nothing was similar, nor reminiscent of his days in school. She was 5’4”, 135lbs, and described as being The Lioness of the Chateau. The details were vague about her, though the quote stood out: “Once you surrender yourself to me, you will always be mine”. The tag line below it: Head Mistress.

It took several moments before Draco’s face began to flush and eyes widened with surprise. This was the same girl who was almost painfully shy with male interaction in school, the one who flushed at any innuendo he threw at her, who left the room nearly in tears after he stated that “Nobody would fuck a mudblood like her”. The memory made him cringe; it felt disgusting even thinking about those words leaving his mouth. To think of that girl being...domineering in any way was shocking to say the least. His finger hovered over the “Book Now” option, and he chewed idly at a callous on his hand. The application listed on the site looked rigorous, and slightly intimidating. After what felt like minutes, he clicked the hyperlink, sending him to an online banking page. It was nearly 13 galleons to even book an appointment...but this felt right.

His appointment was set to 8pm tonight, though he had to be there at 7 to go over the contract, procedures, and limitations of the club. It was now or never, but the anxiety bubbling within his stomach threatened to spill into the territory of nausea. Pansy would absolutely fucking kill him, and honestly, he was more scared of her than he was of most people. Nobody could back a 6’4” man into a corner like little 5’0” Pansy. However...nothing he was doing was illegal. Immoral, yes, but that was easy to justify. This was like therapy, just a little bit of a different approach. Granger would make money, he would get closure, he’d wipe his hands with it. Maybe they would just sit down and talk. Maybe she would boot him out. Maybe, just maybe, he would find some hedonistic pleasure in the experience. He felt himself start to harden at the thought, tensing his muscle as the anticipation grew. Regardless, there was no going back and 13 galleons had already drawn from his account.

**o-o-o-o**

At 6:45 sharp, Draco was dressed and ready to leave. It took almost half an hour of staring his reflection down before actually finding the nerve to dress accordingly (or what he thought was accordingly; was there an etiquette for dungeon attire?). Nevertheless, he checked his wrist watch, scarfed down a leftover tarte his mother had made for him this week, and allowed the Floo powder to send him in the right direction. Already, his palms were beginning to sweat. Tonight was going to be long, that he knew for sure.

He knew the Floo wasn’t going to transport him directly to the club, but he certainly didn’t anticipate it being such a trek to get there. It was 6:58 by the time he was standing in front of the tinted double doors, and it was there that he picked at his nails and attempted to calm his nerves. His face was easily recognizable, and he had to adjust his demeanor accordingly; a sneer put on his face, his shoulders square, his eyes narrowed. It felt alien to put on that front going into an experience such as this one, but it didn’t deter him from pushing the doors open and entering the foreign territory.

This...was not what he expected. The warm red light shining over a curved front desk made sense, this was the redlight district after all. But the receptionist with a sleek blonde ponytail and bubbly smile wasn’t one he expected, nor was the black marble floors that allowed his dress shoes to soundless glide. This place felt, and almost looked like, a luxury hotel. Looking up from her perched position at the desk, the woman gave a warm smile. “Hi! Are you here by appointment?” Draco silently nodded, approaching the desk to tower over her. “First time?” she gathered, smirking slightly after how tense his posture had become. He didn’t have time to respond before she was pushing a stack of waivers and paperwork in his direction, pointing at the line of couches along the back wall like telling a dog to go lay down. Irritation seeped into his features, but he held his tongue and took his position.

The paperwork looked basic. Waivers about liability and risk of bodily harm, expectations, rules and regulations, the whole nine-yards. After jotting down his initials, the next pages felt like he was looking at a complex arithmetic problem: it was lists upon lists of kinks, some of which he didn’t even know the name of. What in the hell even was “sounding”? They ranged based on level of contact, and he was almost hesitant to start putting checkmarks next to them. It had been nearly 40 minutes until he finished going through each box. Almost everything, minus the “unsanitary” section was left as being a checkmark for yes or maybe. The last page was a safe word of his choosing: Strawberry.

The receptionist gave another faux smile when he returned with the paperwork. “Alright, sweetheart. Last thing before you meet Jade will be our non-disclosure agreement.” She rifled through her desk, pulling forth a blue quill and placing it in his palm. “I’m going to need you to sign here, stating that you consent to being unable to share any details from your session with people unaffiliated with the club”. Draco almost hesitated before signing, though the blonde’s unnerving gaze urged him to finish. As soon as the quill left his palm, he knew the magic instilled in it was alive. It felt like a buzz over his body, threatening to zap him should he make one wrong move.

It seemed as though the receptionist delighted in his reaction, for her smile was made wider. “Now, I’m just going to make sure the agreement is bound correctly, okay? Repeat after me: Mistress Jade has curly hair, has a birthmark on her left cheek, and works at the Chateau north of Main. Got it?”. Draco began to speak, “Mistress Jade has-” a snap, like the magic was trying to pull his jaw closed, to keep the breath from escaping his lungs. His eyes flew open in alarm, met with a laugh. He couldn’t finish the statement, no matter how hard he tried. “Perfect! Now, write it down”. This woman was obviously in complete bliss watching him fumble over his words and efforts to fight the magic. When passed a simple quill, his hands began to cramp, the feeling of live electricity coursing through the nerves as he tried to copy down the statement she had made. It was futile; whatever had bound him to this place and the people within it was keeping him from describing it. 

“What the fuck did you do to me?” He said in a hushed and angered tone, though the receptionist just clicked her tongue. “Page 2, article 3.4 clearly stated that this would be the necessary procedure. Did you not read it?” His cheeks flushed, and the laugh that met him was infuriating and alluring. “I’ll have to relay that to Mistress Jade. She’s very big on following rules!”. A tap of her wand, and the doors leading towards the main hallway opened for him. “You’ll be in room 13, sugar. First flight of stairs on your left, second door down”. A bag was opened for him, and he dropped his watch and wand into it. His body begged him to bolt out of this place, to leave this world of fetishism that he felt he had no place being in, but his mind kept his body in the direction of the assigned room. This wasn’t magic pushing him forward; this was determination. 

Draco Malfoy stood in front of the plush red door, his fingers tracing marks along the velvet. Was he supposed to knock? To call out? He was so out of his element here, and the roar of music from the main lounge downstairs obviously didn’t seem to help. Without time to think, or even react, the heavy door swung open to reveal the owner of the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?” was all the owner said before he was able to get a good look at her.

There, in that doorway, stood Hermione Granger. Everything about her both intimidated and drew him in; the corset that clasped tightly around her midsection pushed her bust high, the leather straps around the top keeping them from popping out all together. With the black laced heels on, she was almost at his chin level, tall enough that he could see the anger and disgust in her expression. Draco was almost disappointed to look down and realize that the dark black undergarments weren’t as revealing at the top, her trademark flogger wriggling around at her thighs to wave at him. If it weren’t for his foot in the doorway, she would have slammed the door right in his face. “Granger, wait, I-” A hiss cut him off, and she threw the door back open to point her wand right between his eyes.

“First, don’t ever fucking say that name here, do you understand?” Her words were slow and controlled, and sweat trickled down his back as the wand neared his skin. This had to be illegal, or at least against regulations if they even had them for dungeons. “Secondly, go find some other person to get your rocks off. I’m not fucking interested.” His hands went up, though her grip on the highly crafted wood never waivered. “Please, just hear me out.” Draco nearly pleaded, though Hermione cut him off. “I don’t know how you tracked me down, but I am not interested in whatever bullshit you’re spewing. Come here to taunt me, Malfoy? To get some laughs in about the _Mudblood_ working here?” Dark brown eyes challenged him, and he visibly flinched at the slur. 

Without saying a word, he reached into his pocket to retrieve a large bag of coins. “I have 75 galleons in this bag. I’m not here to do anything like that, I swear on my life. I’m just here for...the experience”. Hermione held her stance for what felt like hours, the mane of tawny curls framing her dangerous expression. She was once an easy tell, somebody he knew he could rile up and get a reaction. Now, the blank expression yielded no answers. It was until she lowered the wand that he felt the tension he didn’t know he was holding begin to dissipate only for a moment before she stepped to the side of the velvet door. “There’s a chair on the back corner. You will strip and remain there until I say otherwise. Say a fucking word and you will regret it.”  
And with that, Draco was swept into a world he knew nothing. The woman who was half his size radiated a power he rarely even saw from the largest of men he worked with; it should have scared him. Instead, it excited him, and he could feel his cock start to harden as he complied and waited for Mistress Jade to start her session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some spice coming soon. Excuse any errors; I've made it my goal to let this work be an "intoxicated" project, so sit back and enjoy the ride :) Some more familiar faces coming soon.
> 
> -Weazy


	3. Chapter 3

**Hermione’s POV**

Hermione Granger’s blood boiled from the moment she locked eyes with her silver-haired alumni. Out of all the people to book a blocked appointment, the ones who could even pay for her time, this was not anybody that she expected or wanted. It was purely instinct to try to slam the door in his face; Madam Eleanor could throw a tantrum all she wanted, Hermione would always be the Head Mistress of the Chateau and her word was final. When his hand extended with a bag of galleons though, her rate and then some, it definitely did peak her interest.

It had truly been years since she locked eyes with Malfoy. His hair was less stark-white against his skin, instead a light blond. He had definitely filled out from the weasley kid she last saw upon leaving Hogwarts, towering over her with broad shoulders and a lean physique. The sneer was still there though, even when he tried to reason with her to allow him to stay for a session. Seemed things like that didn’t change. What game is he playing? She thought to herself, letting her grip on the wand slacken slightly. The thought, however probable, was enough to ignite her body. He could never try to break her or humiliate her once his feet crossed the threshold of Room 13.

“There’s a chair on the back corner. You will strip and remain there until I say otherwise. Say a fucking word and you will regret it.”

Her voice exhumed authority, something she had grown fond as the time she spent at the Chateau had flown by. It was almost a growl from the Lioness, and she could see Draco almost instinctively flinched. She was more than surprised when he didn’t not try to question her authority, but rather obeyed. Interesting; a long con, she guessed. Her finger pointed to a chair bolted to the ground, a long mirror set up so that it’s occupant may see what was being done to them. With minimal hesitance, he closed the door behind him and began to disrobe. First, the fine wool cloak. Then the dress shirt, his pants, everything until he was stripped down to only his briefs.

“I said strip. Not undress.”

Malfoy shot her an incredulous look, one she made note of as she idly stroked the whip that hung against her muscular thighs. Nonetheless, his slim fingers began to tug the elastic down, stepping out of the cotton material one foot at a time. It wasn’t uncommon for first timers to be hard coming into their session, though she hadn’t truly expected for his erection to spring free from the material as quickly as it had. His pale cheeks began to flush, and he padded to the cold metal chair before taking a seat. Hermione’s heels clicked as she padded to the opposite end of the room, twisting the dial on a powder blue egg-timer and grabbing the large bag that rested on the floor beside it before returning to the chair. In it were her essentials, the things she started each session with; consistency at the beginning was key with these things. It always kept her clients on their toes.

Her hands dipped into the bag, fingers wrapping around a thick band of leather material. It was a black collar, the O-ring on the front polished and firm to keep the pieces together, a familiar feeling in her palms. Her gaze met his in the mirror, and he held it, the Malfoy defiance beginning to seep into his features. It pissed her off. Badly. Now was not the time to lose her temper though, and she took her time approaching him from behind, dragging her fingertips across his shoulder blade. The skin flushed in response, goose-bumps trailing from his spine to the nape of his neck. “This is going to be your collar for tonight. You will not try to take it off. Once it is on, you belong fully to me and will submit as so. Is that understood?”. 

Draco took that bait easily, simply nodding. That was never sufficient. Her slim fingers snaked under his neck, grasping his jaw hard enough for the nail to create indentures in his skin as she held him to face her reflection. “The answer is ‘yes ma’am”, she whispered darkly into his ear, leaving a nip on the lobe, “though ‘yes, mistress’ is preferred. Is that understood?” His body reacted so easily, though she could tell the pride that seemed to seep into his bones. “Yes, mistress”, he hissed out in response, eyes narrowing as he fought to free himself from her grip. Her touch didn’t leave for long, as in an instant, she was beginning to buckle the collar around his throat.

The leather was wide, wide enough to cover his Adam’s apple and pass to just a few inches above his clavicle. She tightened the strap a bit tighter than usual, there was a sweet spot between too tight and tight enough for her and she would make sure it was uncomfortable for this particular client. Draco’s hands looked like they were itching to rip the material away, and she silently wished for him to make some move of defiance that she could react to. Instead, she saw his fingernails deep into his palms. His cock was already beginning to show a bead of pre-cum, desperate for some sort of touch that it wouldn’t find any time soon.

Next, she produced the blind fold, a matching leather with a thick line of padding along the inside. A matching buckle, this time with a “J” etched along the inner border. “This will be your blindfold. At any point during this session, you may be blindfolded. I do not want to hear a peep out of you unless it is to say the safeword.” She tucked the leather garment into the band of her tight black underwear, allowing it to brush against the skin of her outer thigh. 

“Tonight, you can expect to be spanked, humiliated, and fucked. You will give yourself over to me and become my personal slave for the next hour. Do you understand that?” Her curls snaked over his shoulders as she leaned above him, nails trailing down the bare skin of his arms. His expression remained unchanged, but his body was an easy tell. “Yes, Mistress,” he replied in a hushed, meticulous tone. A vein in his neck bulged slightly, either from arousal, anger, or both. She let a small laugh leave her lips. “Look at you, all hard and leaking from just a little instruction. From a _mudblood_ , no less. Absolutely pitiful, weasel,” Hermione taunted, allowing a nail to press into him. Draco simply glared, though held his tongue.

“As I’m sure you can see, there is a frame to the left of this chair. Stand up and walk to it. You will wait for me to position you. If I even think that you’re touching your cock, I swear to God the frame will be easy for you.” As he went to stand, she took the opportunity to land a swift crack to the skin of his ass, the skin singing under the swing of her palm. Malfoy gasped, scooting away from the sudden sting. “Fuck!” Swearing was never allowed like that in her dungeon. It could slide, for now. “Did I fucking say stop? Go. Now,” she barked. He fell in line, though she could see that he wanted to rub the already welting mark against his body.  
The A-frame was just large enough for his arms to have some clearance, though he was nearly too tall for it to keep them pinned where she wanted them. The iron frame was custom though, and even the cuffs at the top were sturdy enough to keep the lankier clients elevated. Draco stood underneath them, eying each run and set of cuffs that correlated with them. “Hands up”, she ordered, landing another slap on the other side of his bum. He didn’t curse this time, but his hips ducked away from her before she could land another smack. She took this time to jerk his right arm up, balancing on the base of the frame to strap the material tight around his wrist. She repeated the process, leaving him suspended with his feet flat against the cool ground.

Hermione took this time to admire her work, staring at Draco like a piece of prey. He looked so pathetic standing like this, so weak. His arms strained slightly as he tested the cuffs, a look of panic spreading across his features as he writhed within the restraints. She didn’t give him a warning before reaching up to secure the mask over his grey eyes, jerking hard against the frame. “You don’t have the privilege yet to watch me do this to you. By the end, I’ll bet I’ll have you begging to see me treat you like the bitch you are.” Flush peeked beneath the leather, his chest beginning to show a similar splotchy pink. She let her fingers trail down his chest, slowly sliding them across his hips and down to his cock, stroking it twice before stepping away. “Remember that.”

Now was the fun part, the build up that really excited her. The boots were nearly menacing sweeping across the tile, and she walked heavily to emphasize them. As much as she itched to use the cat-o-nine tails, to let the material swipe across his skin, it wasn’t one to start off with. No, a riding crop would deliver the right amount of sting to start, and she picked one of her older models from the wall. Crack. The sound of her striking the calf of her boot split with the crop rang through the air, her former classmate jumping at the sudden sound. When the heels finally met the back of the frame, she could sense his anticipation, almost smell that fear. It was made even more evident when she traced the tip of it up to his hip, the hide rubbing small circles on the flesh on each side.  
“Angel said you weren’t very good at following directions, so let’s see if you can follow these: I am going whip you. You are going to count after each strike, ending with 10. If you even miss one, we start over. Do you understand, Weasel?” she purred, lightly tapping the leather along his outer thigh. An audible gulp. “Yes, Mistress”.

**o-o-o-o**

**Draco’s POV**

Fear was what was sending him forward, from keeping the retorts from flying out of his mouth. At the first mention of him being pitiful, he nearly slung an insult directly back at her. This was not the path to making amends, and he thought twice before doing so. The fear became more evident when the dark material began to wrap around his throat, digging into the follow of his throat and keeping his chin nearly jutted outward. It rang when he was beckoned to the A-frame, when his skin stung from the sudden strike. It began to envelope him when the blindfold was placed over his eyes, when his world went dark. Almost everything in him screamed to struggle, to flee. But a small part of him was anticipating the next move, his cock harder than it had been in years.

Her words seemed to weave something into him, both comforting and dangerous. They certainly did not prepare him for the splitting pain of the crop hitting his right ass cheek. A groan left his lips, and he yanked hard against the cuffs to squeeze away from the pain. “Shit!” He yelped, legs frantically twisting to get away from him. A boot on his toes pinned them in place, and he felt Hermione’s soft hair brush against his chest as she ducked under his arm to pivot in front of him. “Tsk tsk, Malfoy. I thought you were good at arithmetic.” His toes were crushed, threatening to crack if he struggled. “I don’t want to see you try to wriggle away so fast”. Cool touch pried one ankle to the bottom of the frame, securing it with a set of iron cuffs. His other foot was pried to the opposite side, leaving him spread out on display within the confines of the frame.

“Let’s try this again,” the whip crashed against the mark that it had previously left, and white hot pain shot through him. “One!” he barked out, hips pulled forward to no avail; his ankles were firmly planted against the ground. Crack. A blow landed on the opposite cheek, this time harder. “Two!” A groan this time, feeling the bead of pre-cum drip down the head of his shaft. It was a foreign feeling, though it sent little electric shocks all through his body, warm and tingly. The whip stung again and again, each time Draco calling out the numbers. By the time he had hit 9, the skin was raw and irritated, the pain turning into a rampant heat. His body sagged against the restraints, jolting after each strike. “10!” He shouted out, back arching as the leather sliced higher, right above the top of his ass. 

This seemed to satiate Hermione, for the blows stopped and he was left to pant against the darkness. She almost glided with the tall boots, and if it weren’t for the occasional tickle of her hair that he felt as she circled him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell which direction the heavy steps were coming from. The blindfold had turned his world black, leaving him alert. “What a good boy,” Hermione whispered against the nape of his neck, her warm breath stark against the chill of the room. Her fingers traced along the welts that felt as though they were blossoming across his backside, hot to the touch and stinging with each moment. “You did better with the warmup than I expected.”

“Warm up?” Draco gasped out, body instantly tense as he anticipated what would come next. Her grasp shifted to squeeze his balls, causing him to jerk and let out a low moan. “Oh, you didn’t think that you would be getting just a few licks from a flimsy little crop, did you?” A light laugh, and he felt a new sensation begin to trail along his buttocks. The flogger. The tendrils seemed to trace each welt, the cool material leaving him trembling. “No, I don’t allow profanity from my property.”

The lack of warning for the strike was even more prominent than it had been for the crop, and when the 9 long leather strands landed against the raised and irritated skin, Draco’s body lurched against the heavy metal. It was much more distanced than the single solid crop, though each individual strand seemed to leave it’s vicious mark on his skin. He cried out in pain, back arching as another blow landed in between his shoulder blades. It seemed as though the flogger was to be used in places other than his abused cheeks, which were beginning to go numb to the pain at this point. 

Draco didn’t bother to count these blows, unable to predict the timing as Hermione alternated between swinging in the air above his skin and allowing the hide to snap against it. His body was disconnected from his mind, arousal lighting his skin on fire much more vividly than the whip could produce. What he didn’t expect was to feel her dip under his arm again, turning the flogger’s attention to the unmarred flesh on his chest. The first frontal stripe hit his left pectoral, striking his nipple with the brunt of the force. He cried out, head flying back as he arched against the pressure.

Hermione’s strikes were relentless, targeting the most sensitive parts of his body, the whole way whispering taunts and insults into his ears as if they were reassurances. It was almost overwhelming, and his safeword was danced on the tip of his tongue. It felt like hours since he had been here, and the first time he had ever been on the receiving end of degradation. His own experience had been limited to witches he had met for the sole purpose of a hookup, ones whose names he doesn’t remember. The blows landed on his biceps, his thighs, brutal ones against his stomach. When each blow felt like the pain was beginning to ease, a new one landed, his sweat pouring down his back and seeping into the sensitive cuts.

And in an instant, the flogger was withdrawn. He was left drenched in a cold sweat, panting against the restraints on his wrists and ankles that were already beginning to go numb. The hard metal dug deep into his skin, though it almost felt relieving compared to the bruising that was surely blossoming across the fatty areas of his body. Figuring out a way to cover those marks crossed his mind briefly, though the silence that filled room 13 was almost deafening, drowning out trivial thoughts such as his own. Hermione’s soft breath came out in short pants, and he could hear the flogger fall to the floor as her hands began to unbind first his ankles, then his wrist. He didn’t dare move to touch the blindfold, only leaned against the cold iron of the frame. His cock throbbed painfully, twitching slightly with each gasp he made.

“If you think you’re done, you’re fucking mistaken. You have 120 seconds to catch your breath, and then we will get to the real fun.”

Something about those words caused Draco’s blood to run cold; there was more that his Mistress had in store, though what, he was unsure of. Based on the hand groping at the stinging marks on the back of his thighs though, he suspected he knew exactly what was next in store from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We going in with the spice. Prepare for more smut with a touch of plot for next chapter, I have some fun things planned for this piece ;)
> 
> -Weezy


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets his first taste of a dominatrix session. Hermione revels in it. Both are conflicted.

**Hermione’s POV**

The two minutes that Hermione Granger gave her client felt like they were dragging by, and she took her chance to let her gaze trail across his battered and bruised body. He had dropped to his knees at this point, breath coming in short and ragged bursts as he tried to process what had just happened. Dropping down to squat, her chocolate brown eyes scanned over each section of his skin, scanning for any marks that she would have to heal before he left the Chateau. The riding crop had yielded a good deal of the bruises that trailed across his thighs and buttocks, with several of the lacerations showing small amounts of crimson. The skin was angry and welted, a deep red shade; this was likely his first time being spanked or whipped, and she knew better than anybody else that the flesh wouldn’t be conditioned to this sort of abuse for a long stretch of time.

Her gaze traveled to where the flogger had struck, the lines more sparse and dispersed now. The more impressive ones were across the tops of his shoulders and chest, stark against his milky pale skin. His form was similar to how it was growing up, though he had broadened slightly, contrasting with his lean midsection and legs. Hermione let her fingertips trail across one of the wounds, and Draco flinched away from her touch, raising his palm to bat away the sudden contact. Wrong move, weasel, she thought, eyes narrowing as she seized his wrist between hands and squeezed hard. Her long nails dug into the unmarred portion, yanking him forward so that his face and chest were inches from her face. “Don’t you _dare_ try to deny me like that again. You belong to me and I will do whatever the fuck I want to _my_ property”. Hermione’s tone was dangerous, her temper flaring; this sort of rage was not a show at this point, not the dominant face that she put on for the majority of her clientele. This rage was raw and real, and she could feel the urge to break the Slytherin’s spirit the way that he had done to her all those years ago.

Behind the blindfold, his eyebrows pinched, jaw tightening as his face grew into a scowl. “Yes, _mistress Granger_ ,” he spit out, nearly bearing his teeth at her; he was reaching a climax of defiance, though her shock was too strong to even make note of that. Before she could even stop herself, her hand was flying through the air, palm landing a sharp crack against his cheek that sent him sideways. Had his wrist not been gripped in her other hand, he could have likely hit the ground, though she held him firmly in place. It was everything that she could do to keep her voice low and controlled, though it threatened to come out as a shriek. “My name is Mistress Jade and you will address me as such”, she hissed, jerking his wrist up so that he was back in sitting position. “How fucking stupid do you have to be not to recognize that? I know you can rub those three brain cells of yours together and get that through your thick fucking skull.” 

She could see the words sting him, a warmth pooling in her belly as his discomfort began to arouse her. The experience of bringing a client in and making them hers always excited Hermione, though when it was somebody who she held a history of loathing towards, the feeling was amplified tenfold. Her slim fingers ducked between her into her tight shorts as she rubbed the growing moisture between her legs, pushing her panties aside to tease her clit. “Open your mouth,” she commanded. It took several moments for Draco’s jaw to unclamp, though he complied, allowing her to rub the wetness against his tongue. “Now suck them like the good little bitch you are.”  
Still managing to keep his wrist pinned, Hermione nearly arched her back at the sudden sensation of the ex-Slytherin’s tongue on her fingers, lightly sucking the moisture off of them. He was unreadable, the mask hiding any sort of emotion he might be showing. It was at this moment that her vision began to trail down to the arm she was holding, the one with the Dark Mark still etched in it. The ink itself had not faded fully, stark against his wrist, though it looked different; greyscale flowers covered most of the skull, a second snake having been added to curl in the opposite direction. She knew what it was up close but from a distance, the original design was obscured into a floral piece of art. Lifting it up a bit, she squinted, observing the angry raised skin that surrounded the new ink; scars. The entire texture of the mark was different, as if he had tried to scrub it off of his skin. It unsettled her enough to let the appendage go.

**Draco's POV**

Everything in his felt like fire. His skin felt burnt to a crisp, like a bad sunburn that had salt and lemon juice rubbed into the skin. Sweat had begun to drip down his spine, down his brow, falling into the raw flesh. To him, the two minute reprieve that he got felt like nothing. Time was obsolete here, a feeling of uncertainty of how long it had been since he walked through those doors. Was it 20 minutes? 30? How much longer would this torture be? Even when the word came to mind though, he couldn’t compare it to the torture that his dominatrix had been through at his own hands. Besides that, his persistent arousal was enough of an indication that his body was enjoying every second of this event. Every once and a while Hermione would reach down between his legs, alternating between stroking the tip of his cock lightly and giving less-than gentile tugs to his testicles. The dichotomy of it was confusing, but his body loved every second of it.

With her fingers in his mouth still, Draco felt Hermione let go of his wrist; the bones had felt like they were grating together, the restraints that had been removed already making his limbs feel weak. Her fingers still remained between his lips, and he did his best to suck them to her approval level. It didn’t take him much to realize what she had been doing; she tasted sweet, like honey and basil. It was enough to make his cock throb painfully, and she stroked him once more. The hand holding his jaw in place withdrew trailing down one of the lacerations between his ribcage. “Poor Malfoy. A big bad Death Eater, practically begging to cum from some light contact play,” Hermione cooed into his ear, thumb pressing to the sensitive area at the top of his shaft. Between the soft words and her body being this close to him, it felt like he was going to cum at any moment, a guttural moan leaving his chest. He bucked his hips into her hand, craving that release, praying that she would let him finish and relieve that tightness between his legs. It was futile though. Instantly her hand withdrew, leaving his cock to drip pre-cum onto the cold floor that he kneeled on. “I don’t let my pets come that easily.” She chided.

Without any warning other than the sound of her clearing her throat slightly, a wet feeling coated his face, and he recoiled slightly. She had just fucking spit on him. She had literally spat in his face...and he was desperate to taste it, to lick the saliva from his lips and feel what she tasted like. It was just as sweet as her own juices, like some sort of Cherry mixed drink. He felt like a desperate, pathetic fool. Somebody who comes to grovel at the feet of somebody he wanted closure from only to be reduced to a sputtering mess of a man, his pride bruising slowly as the degradation went on. This went against everything he stood for, every masculine drill his father had put him through, every chauvinistic line he had thrown between Crabbe and Goyle during his schooling years. He felt his hair being jerked back, his jaw tilted upwards. “You’ve had well over two minutes, Weasel. Back to the fun.” If he could see her, he’d be throwing daggers in her direction.

Hermione’s grip was gone momentarily, replaced by the sound of rustling and the feeling of soft fabric being peeled off. It didn’t fully register what was happening until she took his hand in her own and drew it between her legs. Draco damn near choked at this; he did not know dominatrix etiquette, and didn’t expect in a million years that the appointment would go beyond him being abused or dominated. “Since you’ve had a bad habit of talking back to me, I want a moment of true silence...but you need to beg first.” His eyebrows furrowed, confused for a moment. What exactly was she expecting of him? It took a few moments before she gripped his hair once more. “Beg for me, you fucking idiot. Beg to lick me.” His cheeks flushed, and he sputtered for a moment. “I don’t-” a slap cut through the air, the same side of his face as before. Jaw ringing and stars in his vision, Draco let out a sharp yelp at the sudden force before gathering what little composure and dignity he had.

“P-please, Mistress Jade, let me pleasure you.” A sharp laugh, the fingers digging deeper into his scalp. “Pathetic. Is that how you ask for something that you really want? Again.” Gritting his teeth in shame and frustration, his voice was a bit more stable. “Please, Mistress Jade, let me lick you.”

“Try again.”

“Please let me lick you, Mistress Jade, I want you to feel good.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Please, fuck, Mistress Jade, please let me taste you”

“Again.”

His frustration was at the brim, at risk of teeming over. “Please, please just let me taste your pussy. Please let me lick you!” Draco’s voice came out in a sharp whine, loud and needy. Inwardly, he cringed; he truly was pathetic. This seemed to satisfy his mistress though, as she yanked his head forward and into her crotch. The back of her thigh rested on his shoulder, pinning him in place as he knelt on the floor. It took no time at all for his tongue to meet her lips, tasting the sweetness of her juices. It was addicting, and he couldn’t get enough as he licked with fervor. It was enough for him to ignore the throbbing of his member, and his hand tentatively reaching up to rest on her knee. The sounds she was making...god, they were driving him wild. Everything about her, about the build up, the knowledge that he was able to give her some sort of reprieve was driving him absolutely wild.

**Hermione’s POV**

He might be an arrogant, pompous, bigoted son of an absolute bitch, but Draco Malfoy was good with his mouth. Hermione couldn’t deny him that; it was like he was born for this job, and in a way, he was. A pure-blooded traitor devolved to a mess, worshipping a “mudblood” as he had once thrown in her face all those years ago. “Good boy…” she purred as his tongue found the sensitive nub at the top of her folds, her hips thrusting forward to grind against his lips. “You love the taste of this Mudblood pussy, don’t you?” His response was a slight nod, the leather mask brushing against her pubic bone. Sweat began to trickle down the nape of her neck, body too warm, clothing too tight. Senses on fire, Hermione arched her back a bit, pushing her clients head further between her legs as she braced against his back. With exception of the murmurs of encouragement or degradation being peppered throughout her speech, and the light moans coming from Draco, the room was eerily silent. 

She glanced down at the hand that rested at her thigh, his forearm towards the ground; she knew which one it was though. That fucking tattoo, the one he was forced to bear his entire life; the vindictive side of her thought it fitting, but she pitied him deep down. It was hard to focus on it though, for his tongue flicked once more on the sensitive bundle of nerves. It wasn’t often that Hermione had a customer make her moan like this, her head thrown back so that her long, wild curls bounced against the cleft of her ass. Every nerve sang, warmth pooling into her belly. Something else began to creep into her system though; fear. Anxiety was beginning to build with her climax, and something in her snapped. Old habits die hard, and she would not allow herself to feel that release at the hand of a man. It brought back too many mixed emotions from years ago. She quickly unhooked her leg from Draco’s shoulder, pressing the heel of her shoe into his chest to knock him back to the floor. The look of confusion wasn’t missed, though he savored every bit of her juices that remained on his flushed lips. His expression almost asked, “did I not do well?” though the words never left his mouth. 

“You are going to stand up,” she instructed, grabbing his forearm and jerking him up into standing position. _How the hell is he still hard?!_ His knees were beginning to bruise against the hard floor, and he crossed his legs slightly, trying to shield himself from her slightly. “Oh, stop with that shit. Bitches don’t get dignity,” she nearly growled, beginning to lead him to the back corner of the room. It was her bed, the one she had personally purchased and customized to her liking. The sheets were a deep maroon shade, the posts and headboard adorned with various anchors that restraints that could be attached so she chose so choose. Above it was the sheer black canopy, one that tricked down over the mattress elegantly. If it weren’t customized to the dominatrix lifestyle, it would almost be lovely, romantic even. Here though, it served one purpose. Hermione wasn’t careful of where she stepped, occasionally stepping onto his toes with the edge of her heels, almost gleeful at the winces. “You will lie on your back here until I tell you to move. Legs up, arms hooked under your knees. I want you spread on display like the whore you are when I get back”.

Draco obeyed, though he fidgeted as he did so; this was obviously new and foreign territory for him, to have his legs spread pitifully like he had with so many people before. Hermione was almost shocked to see that his asshole had been shaved, the skin pink and puckered ever so slightly. The dominatrix just her thumb trace of his entrance, her submissive letting out a soft yelp as his grip on the back of his knees tightened. She rose, boots clicking as she approached the small cabinet next to her bed. From it, she produced two things: a small bottle of lubricant, and the medium sized dildo attached to a black harness that she was so fond of. The latter was placed at the edge of the bed, while she took no time squeezing a bit of the cool liquid onto her index finger. “Answer me, Weasel...have you ever been fingered?” Her voice was a purr as she rubbed her two fingers together, reveling in the slickness. “N-no, mistress…” 

“Well then this will be especially fun...I don’t get to fuck virgins often”

The curly-haired witch took her time approaching the tall man spread-eagle on the bed, letting the toes of her boot create lines in the floor. The clicking was enough to torture her blind-folded subs, and she could see his chest rising and falling a bit more rapidly than it had before. Standing over him, she let her knee rest on the mattress, rubbing a bit of the cool lubricant on his rim. He squirmed a bit at the cold feeling, earning a slap on his welted ass cheek with her other hand. “The only thing that will make this easier for you is if you hold still and fucking relax. I am giving you one chance to listen before I stop being nice. Now breathe, dipshit.” Despite this being a normal reaction, Hermione’s patience was wearing thin. It wasn’t that fucking scary. She gave him little warning before sliding her index finger past the tight rim and into him.

At the sudden intrusion, Draco gasped, nearly breaking contact with his knees as he squired slightly. He was warm inside, dry despite the lubricant on her finger. Not a word passed between him as Hermione gently thrust the digit into him, searching for the bundle of nerves that she knew would ease the tension. Even when she did find it, earning a low moan, the tension against her was still prevalent. Teeth gritting, she let another low warning leave her lips. “If you think this is bad, Malfoy, then two fingers is going to be torture...well, for you, maybe.” She released her hold on his ass cheek, reaching to grab the bottle of lube and letting it drip onto his tight hole. It wasn’t long before the tight cavity felt a little bit less dry, and she took this opportunity to slide her middle finger in, scissoring him open. His breath was faster now, cock slapping against his abdomen as he strained against the sudden pressure. Hermione hummed a bit as she stroked his prostate. His body was beginning to relax around her fingers, though she could see the shame across his body, skin red from the lacerations and his own embarrassment. 

A third finger was slid into him, and all the tenderness she had once shown as gone. Her digits thrusted into him at an even and firm pace, his cock dribbled pre-cum as he groaned and squired against her. “Such a good little slut. It was like you were _bred_ for this…” The words instantly had an effect on him, and he tensed slightly. Oh well. He had 20 minutes left on his session, and she was going to get to the main course whether his body was ready or not. Besides, he knew the safe word. He could use it at any time. Drawing her fingers back, she pulled out of him, his asshole gaping slightly as she did. “It almost looks like you have a pretty little pussy…” she murmured, standing to stride towards her cabinet. 

One leg at a time, Hermione slid the harness over her legs and strapped it firmly against her pelvis. The slickness of the lube almost made it difficult to hold, though she used it to stroke the 6” flesh-toned cock that adorned it. A larger size was reserved for regulars; anything more would definitely be painful, and not in the good way. “Are you ready for the main course, Malfoy?” She drawled with her approach, dragging his hips back so that he was on the edge of the mattress. A whimper was the only response she had, and she rubbed the head of the hard rubber against his entrance. He was still slick from the silicone based lube; it didn’t dry out easily. Still, she took the time to apply more, making sure that it was nearly dripping. “I am going to fuck you and you are going to lie there and take it,” she instructed, stroking the dildo, “though I encourage you to use the safe word should you need to.”

Before he could even moan out a response, Hermione was already pushing the length into him. Draco’s body vibrated on the mattress, and had she not had her nails dug firmly into his hip bones, she was sure he would have scooted back from her. Still, she took it slow. She didn’t want him as a regular client, though she didn’t want to hurt him either. A vein in his cock twitched as she slowly sunk into his body, hilting herself fully. “Mm…so tight,” she moaned slightly, pinching one of his erect nipples. “Ah...thank you, mistress…” he whispered out, arching into her touch. Good. Affirmation. She took this as an indicator that he was ready for her, and drew the fake cock out just slightly before slamming into him. That earned a much louder response, one of him digging his nails into the soft him of his legs. 

The pace she set was not gentle; she thrust into him hard, dragging his hips into her so that every inch of the rubber was hilted. His cock bounced between his legs, and she took the opportunity to grip it and stroke. The moans he made were delicious, the blindfold allowing the peaks of blush to spread. It should have made her feel good. It should have made her proud of her work. Instead, it caused the resentment and anger to bubble to the surface. He was in her Chateau, getting off on some sort of power dynamic he wanted to play out. Hermione had no idea why he had come in the first place, and frankly, she didn’t give a shit. Thrusting a bit harder, Hermione angled herself to where she knew his prostate was. 

The first time she hit it with the 6”, she thought he was beginning to seize. His body reacted immediately, throwing his head back to let out a moan and buck into her hand. Perfect; he could handle it. The pace continued as she drilled into his slick entrance, jerking his cock more. “Do you want to cum, Weasel?” She demanded, twisting her grip. Another moan, with an especially hard thrust in response. “Answer me now!” He grunted; that one had to hurt. “Yes, please Mistress Jade, please let me cum!” He yelled out, voice rising to fill the air. He’d obeyed, and was running out of time on his session. Might as well let him. The combination of strap on and her fingers would push him over the edge in no time, and she was absolutely correct: in a matter of seconds, the blind-folded Slytherin had coated his stomach and chest with cum. His cock twitched in her grasp, but she was merciless in it. 

“Tell me you like being fucked like a whore,” she barked, squeezing him hard, “Tell me how much you like being fucked by a Mudblood.” His moans turned raw as he writhed against her, muscles tense under her grip. “I-I, fuck, I love being fucked by a Mudblood.” She spit against the blindfold as she drilled into him, narrowing her eyes to glare at him. She fucking hated everything about him. She loathed the tattoo that marred his strained arm, his smug expression that he held all these years, the fact that he seemed okay with the past. Everything about him gave her the opportunity to punish him. “Tell me how pathetic you are,” she spat, releasing his cock to backhand his right cheek.

“I’m pathetic!”

“Again.”

“I’m pathetic.”

“Keep. Going.”

 _“I’m fucking pathetic!”_ His voice was raw, words jumbled. “I’m a pathetic nobody!” Hermione wanted him to see her treating him like the bitch she was, and she ripped the leather away from his eyes so that she could meet his gaze. Instead of a grey glare meeting her...it was eyes squinched tight, tears streaming from the corners. He was crying; his voice was raw to keep that sob in his chest, though removing the blindfold seemed to be the key to releasing the pent of emotions. It was enough to make her pull out of him, and a weak “Strawberry” passed his lips before the tears openly fell. His body looked wracked with confusion, any trace of smug defiance gone. 

It took little time for her to pull the harness off and remove the black collar that was tight against his throat, though by the time she had put everything away, he had turned his back to her on the bed to stare at the wall. Aftercare. She needed to utilize it. Hermione’s touch was softer now as she rubbed small circles onto his back, allowing him to openly cry in front of her. It was...uncomfortable. The resentful was ebbing into empathy, and she almost cried with him given the raw vulnerability. They sat like that for what felt like hours, even after the timer dinged, and she alternated between letting her wand trace over the angry marks and letting her fingers brush against his back. It was easy to heal the marks, though she wasn’t sure she could heal whatever had snapped in the ex-prefect. 

It wasn’t long before he wordlessly rose, not even looking at her as he slid on his dress robes and ran a hand through his tousled platinum locks. He didn’t acknowledge her as he slid each foot into his shoes, nor when he straightened the tie. The only thing that she was granted was a small, “Thank you” as he drew the bag of coins from his pockets and gently laid them on the bed he had just been fucked on. With a sweep of black robes, Draco Malfoy was gone as soon as he had entered. The redness rimming his eyes didn’t escape her notice, and instead of satisfaction in the money she had just made or the job she did, guilt rested in the pit of her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a hot minute since I've written smut, but this was a fun one to write! Ending has a purpose; y'all didn't think it would JUST be a smutty story right? Naw, we letting sex help with trauma. As a note: this is meant to be toxic. They are meant to be absolutely toxic towards one another before ANY sort of healing happens. Trust the process ;)
> 
> -Weezy


	5. Chapter 5

**Draco’s POV**

Everything fucking hurt.

From his head down to the balls of his feet, Draco’s body ached as he briskly padded down the hallway that had led him right to Hermione Granger’s door. A headache was beginning to form right between his temples, and while the actual pain and cuts from the lashings had been removed with just a wave of the dominant woman’s wand, he swore that there was a phantom ache that continued to blossom across his extremities. To make matters even worse though was the stinging in his eyes, brilliant grey contrasting with the heavy redness that rimmed them.

It had been almost 5 years since he had cried like that in front of another person. Not even his mother had seen him sob like that, like a child that had just been reprimanded. The shame that remained hot in his veins wasn’t one that would leave easily; he was dazed, after all, unsure of what had truly occurred to him emotionally or physically during that one hour period. There were no other physical marks though. Whatever magic Granger had used on him had soothed the bruises, the welts smoothing back into the pale skin, the cuts knitting back together neatly. The physical marks be damned though; she hadn’t bothered to even try to help him hide the tears. She was probably reveling in his shame, smirking at how he had admitted to his faults at her feet. He truly was pathetic, waltzing in expecting forgiveness and leaving in shambles. This was not a man that Lucious Malfoy would have been proud of. Nor would I ever want to be one like that, Draco corrected himself mentally. His father had been dead for years, buried in the ground with a portion of the disgrace the Malfoy name held.

Footsteps nearly drowned out by the music in the lounge below, Draco was nearly silent as he made his way back down to the lower level of the Chateau. Some of the men and women that occupied the space peered curiously from the doors of each room; a tall, dark skinned man grinned at him and winked, his shorter counterpart peeking from under his arm and flashing him with a dazzling smile. “Come play with us,” she purred, hand leaning up to rest against her partner's bare chest. Without a look of acknowledgement, the blond wizard strode right past them, his ears red from embarrassment. The last thing he needed right now was for another person from this fucking place recognizing him. He took each step two at a time, trying desperately to get outside of this damn club and leave. Fresh air. That was what he needed, something cool in his lungs to keep the pressure from exploding outwards.

Angel seemed to be waiting for him when his feet finally hit the base of the steps, her legs crossed daintily as she perched atop the receptionists desk. If Hermione Granger reveled in the state that she had deduced him too, the front desk woman seemed to as well. The smile plastered across her face would almost be polite had she not known everything that occurred in that room as soon as his feet crossed the threshold. “Aw, going somewhere so soon, Mr. Malfoy?” She whined, long acrylics tracing patterns on her bare thigh. His teeth gritted in frustration, and he kept his head ducked to avoid eye contact. “Yes, and if you don’t mind, I have places to be,” he started, attempting to pass by the desk to hit that blackened exit. Instantly, her hand was around the fabric of his cloak, drawing him in. The sudden movement made him flinch; Hermione had done something so similar. It would have aroused him had it been at the hands of the woman he had just seen, but with Angel, it was damn near unnerving. 

“One last question, before you go, Mr. Malfoy!” The petite woman chirped, and Draco could feel his jaw clenching in anger. Taking a deep breath to keep the bark in his tone at bay, he gritted out, “What do you possibly need from me now? I’ve paid already.” A devilish smile met him, white and straight. “What was the name of the individual that you met this evening?” He swallowed quickly, managing to only say “Mistress J-” before breaking out into a fit of coughs. No matter how much he wanted to say her name, fake or otherwise, it would not leave his lips. The more he tried, the more the pressure in his chest mounted, threatening to choke him indefinitely. Running a palm once more over his swollen cheeks, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can I just fucking leave now?” Angel readjusted her skirt, rocking down so that she swiftly hopped from her seat on the desk to land softly on the floor. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Malfoy, and we hope to see you again soon!”

Yeah, fucking right, he thought to himself, though he knew deep down that this one visit wouldn’t satisfy any sort of dissonance in his life. It would have been so much easier to talk to her, though he knew that she would have never agreed to it outright. Any attempts he had made prior to research what she had been doing all these years was met with a brick wall. Potter was busy doing field work god knows where, outsourced from the Ministry’s main branch to other agencies across the world. The few times he did see the dark-haired man, he barely acknowledged him. Reaching out to the Weasel, the second in the Golden Trio, was obsolete. That was a man who could hold grudges, who spit venom in his direction the one time they did cross paths, calling him a “Disgusting traitor” and stalking in the other direction. No, she was elusive that one, seeming to disappear from the wizarding world up until this point.

More than anything after tonight, all that Draco wanted to do was poor himself a glass of whisky and go to bed. The headache was roaring between his ears and no amount of rubbing his temples seemed to soothe it. As he turned to face the door, however, he was met with a familiar piercing gaze, one that was shooting daggers in his direction. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Pansy Parkinson held her shoulders square as she approached the disheveled man, her stride long and menacing. Despite her short stature, even smaller than Hermione, she had every ounce of menace and power that a grown man would. Even clad in her dance uniform, the danger that was prevalent in her gaze was clear. “Pansy, I don’t want to do this right now,” Draco signed, gaze darting to the floor as he attempted to slip past her. Her body slid easily in front of him though, blocking the Chateau’s exit. “I don’t give a shit whether you want to do this. Why. Are. You. Here?” Her emphasis almost made him flinch, and if he was less worried about the strength of her hexes and his own state of being, he would have shoved right past her. “I was just visiting. I wanted to see what your work was like.”

Wrong answer. He knew it as soon as he met her stare, which felt as though it was piercing through the back of his skull. It took a moment before her eyes grew wide, nails digging into his arm. “You fucking didn’t,” she whispered, all of it hitting her at once. She knew. She knew exactly why he was here. “I told you, Draco. I fucking told you to leave it alone.” Her voice was growing in volume, and several patrons shot them looks as they entered the building. Angel shooed them off though; they must have been regulars, ones who didn’t need to go through the process of verifying anonymity. “But no, you were too fucking arrogant to listen to anything I had to say. Do you understand how disrespectful this little stunt you pulled was? Showing up to my work, harassing my girls?” The nails dug in deeper, where the phantom marks of the whip had struck just minutes earlier.

“What I do in my spare time with my money is none of your concern. You’re not my fucking keeper, so bugger off so I can go home,” he hissed out, shaking his arm free of her grasp. “Oh perfect, run away, just like you always do.” Pansy’s lithe form blocked him once more as he tried to side step her, and his eyes darted to the door as someone else entered. The individual who was standing there was enough to divert his attention from the fiery woman essentially holding him hostage, large blue eyes staring at him in surprise. Ginny Weasley had changed a lot in the last few years, a name he had pretty much forgotten about; she was a year below him after all, flying under the radar other than when she managed to snag Potter. It didn’t take a genius to understand that those days were behind her; she was wearing a similar outfit to Pansy, almost her foil. 

In an instant, Ginny’s arms folded over her chest, stepping to duck behind Pansy. Still though, she stared at him, at the arm where she knew his tattoo was. “What the fuck are you staring at?”, he snapped, leaning in closer to sneer at her. The last thing he needed or wanted was somebody else from his past wiggling their way into this moment in his life. Why didn’t she just let him go to sleep? He just wanted to go home, not be held hostage. The ginger haired woman visibly recoiled, an expression of fear crossing her features as she folded closer to her companion. If Pansy’s tone was dangerous a few moments prior, it was deadly now. “Don’t you ever speak to her like that again. I swear to fucking god, Malfoy, it will be the last happy thing you do for a long time.” _Nothing happy has happened in a long time,_ he nearly said aloud, though he refused to give her anything. He didn’t need her pity. If he hadn’t been sublimating, trying to focus on anything except for this confrontation, he would have nearly missed Ginny’s hand snaking up to rest on Pansy’s hip. Interesting.

“Get off your high horse and get the fuck out of my way, Pansy. You can finish yelling at me and I can finish pretending I give a shit tomorrow, but until then, move.” This time, he did manage to squeeze past her, though she caught him quickly enough so that he turned to face her once more. Even with the music blaring in the background, and the rush of his own blood roaring in his ears, it was as if the world was stock still and silent. “I told you to leave her alone. I fucking told you to drop it, and you promised you would. You promised me, Malfoy, you told me-” her mouth shut quickly as she actually had a chance to look at him, to see him in the different lighting. “Jesus christ, have you been crying?” Her anger faded into concern and it was in that moment that every bit of composure he had been reserving snapped. 

“I’m done. I’m done with you and I’m done with this bullshit tonight,” he nearly shouted, breaking free of her grasp and almost running to the exit. Pansy didn’t pursue him, luckily, and he took the opportunity to gasp in deep lungfuls of the crisp autumn air. The streets were desolate. Any trace of the music that had boomed inside the Chateau’s walls had gone silent, leaving him only to focus on his own rapid breathing and the soft rustling of fallen leaves. His vision was fuzzy, almost spinning as he stumbled back to where the Floo station was. Even when the powder had engulfed him and he was deposited within his own home, his gasping didn’t secede, escalating into a state of shaking. Pansy knew. Pansy knew why he was there, probably knew what he had done to him. 

Everything was too loud, too hot, his own body too small for the feelings that threatened to escape. The world went dark as Draco stumbled to his knees, eyes closing as he fell to the floor. It was a dreamless night; a rare one, at that.

**Hermione’s POV**

Hermione let out a deep breath as soon as the door clicked closed behind Draco, one she had been subconsciously holding. Her skin felt sticky with his tears, the ones that had fallen on her wrists when she pulled that leather mask off, the same one that lay abandoned atop the ruffled sheets. Every emotion seemed to be running through her at once; the fear that she had been wrong about his intentions being here, the anger that he had dared showed his face, the resentment of seeing that tattoo once more. It was enough to need another drink; it was only the beginning of the night for her, and seeing as she only booked one client tonight, the lower level would be her domain unless another client walked through her doors. Even though the desire to feel Cherry Fireball in the back of her throat beckoned her to leave, she remained firmly planted on the mattress, curling her toes in her boots absentmindedly.

It took nearly an hour of staring at the floor, of allowing her defenses to be dropped, before she rose and began to prepare for a night of dancing. An outfit change; a bodysuit made of slick latex, the fishnets peeking out beneath it. Her flogger was nearly clipped to her hip, writhing with anticipation. When she was first gifted the strange, magical object, the constant movement terrified her. It would stroke her lightly tanned skin without warning, almost needy. Now, it was an extension of her body, part of who Mistress Jade was. Hermione let her fingers trace over the material, murmuring out a “Not now”, before she began her ascent to the lower level of the Chateau. Her head was held high, curls tangled and almost matted together in some places. It was part of her look; a feral, wild Lioness. The Lioness of the Chateau, she had been dubbed, a mistress to all of the escorts that lined the hallways of the second level. She prided herself in this title, as well as the reputation that followed.

As soon as her feet crossed the threshold to the club’s lounge, she immediately scouted the area for familiar faces. Pansy was one she tended to stick close to; the customer’s loved to see how freely they expressed affection, though it didn’t seem to occur to them that it was genuine affection, nothing more or less. Here, in the safety of the lounge, the lines between platonic indifference and romantic expression were blurred, a safe place to be warm and kind to those who you loved. It took only a few moments before she recognized the black bob through the crowd, shiny under the shifting lights illuminating the club. It always intrigued her how the witch kept her hair so neat between sets, the black reflecting the light like an oil spill. Several patrons turned their heads to watch her stride through the crowd, knocking the shoulders of men who assumed she would move around them. Idiots, the lot of them.

Pansy rested against the dark velvet of one of the plush couches lining the walls, Ginny Weasely perched atop her lap and giggling. A dry martini sat untouched on the table, and Hermione could tell in an instant that something was bothering her friend. Nearly flopping down, she kicked up a heeled shoe, resting it on the edge of the table. Pansy barely met her expression though, instead stroking her hands down Ginny’s exposed thigh and occasionally planting a kiss on her girlfriend’s cheek. They’d been together for a few months though, Pansy taking Ginny under her wing as a dancer until it blossomed into something more. She did occasionally see Blaise here too, though that relationship dynamic was sticky enough that she didn’t dare ask. Moments of silence passed, long enough for Hermione to flag a waitress down for three of the Cherry Firewhisky shots that she craved. Pansy spoke first though, never one to avoid addressing the issue.

“Did Draco come to see you tonight?” Her tone was low and controlled, though Hermione knew it was the calm AFTER the storm with Pansy. It was always an outburst and then rationale with her friend, a balance that took quite a while for her to fully understand. Ginny went quiet at this, fiddling with a stray lace on her cropped bustier. Honesty had always been key in their relationship though, and Hermione spoke almost flippantly. “He did, indeed. Left an hour or two ago,” she studied her cuticles, digging her wands out of her pockets and waving it over the digits. The chipped nail polish knitted together, nail elongated; had to keep them short for the more intimate customers. A sigh was released, and Pansy replaced the palm on Ginny’s thigh to rub her eyes. “What did he have to say? Please don’t tell me he made an ass of himself…” her voice trailed off, guilt tugging at it. “I’m so sorry, I swear I don’t know how, Jade. He must have seen you in one of my advertisement photos and recognized you, I don’t know how, you were all blurry an-” 

A hand went up to silence her friend, a soft smile tugging at Hermione’s lips. “Don’t apologize. It’s the trick of the trade,” Pansy’s shoulders sagged in relief at Hermione’s words; she sounded like guilt was eating at her. Despite the anger Hermione initially felt, the urge to be cross with the other woman, it ultimately wasn’t her fault. It was only a matter of time before a face from her past appeared at the Chateau foyer, a risk she always knew would be evident. “He paid for my time and left. Nothing more or less”. She let the words settle in, let Pansy and Ginny both soak up the information. They knew exactly what went on behind the doors of room 13, knew that “Jade” was never one to let a man dominate or penetrate her. The understanding hit them suddenly, Pansy jolting so hard that her red-headed girlfriend nearly tumbled from her lap. “No fucking way,” she whispered, though Hermione only met her with a coy smile, hiding any trace of the anger she had felt upon seeing Draco at her door. “Confidentiality, Dais, that’s all I can say”. The sternness in her tone was enough to make both girls drop the questioning, going back instead to eying the floor and the dancers surrounding them.

It was simple enough to distract herself from the altercation for the remainder of her shift; the dancing and drinking kept the night fun, kept it interesting. She let fingers grip the jaws of men and women who gawked at her, let laughter bubble from her chest at the piss-poor jokes they told her in an attempt to impress the dominatrix. Everything about the club exuded energy that couldn’t be matched by the mundaneness of the “real world”, for it was it’s own world. Nothing was off limits here, so when she did take the stage for a set or two, it was second nature. Hermione danced until Draco’s voice was a blur, drank until she couldn’t remember his features or the remorse that had filled her following his visit. It was serene in the most destructive ways.

When it finally was time to clock out, she almost stumbled to the bouncer that was stationed on the Floo exit, giggling as the toe of her boot caught the wall. Finn was everything a bouncer needed to be; menacing and silent, a man of few words. It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes, with high cheekbones, a roman nose, and deeply tanned skin. Just his stature and demeanor alone were enough to keep the unruly patrons at bay. “Mind helping me get back?” she chirped, leaning hard against his form. A chuckle left his throat, that solemn demeanor breaking. He would do anything for the girls in the club, even if it meant holding their hand to steady themselves through the chimney and into the Floo networks most lavisvious portal. “On three?” Finn asked in a deep voice, to which Hermione nodded enthusiastically. 

“One…”

“Two…”

A flash; he never really waited until three before tossing a handful of the green powder into the fireplace, leaving her laughing and dizzy as she was dropped into her own home. The world spun around her, and she instantly knew that the night had gotten away from her as she threw herself on the bare sofa. Closing her eyes was the only thing that could quell the nausea, thoughts rushing back to her in glimmers of the night. Hermione didn’t even register that sleep was taking her over, only that her nightmares consisted of white-haired young man watching her body writhe against the cold tile floor. She could almost feel the Crucio, as well as the disdain that bore through his expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut in this one, sorry guys <3 Next week should maintain that spice, and possibly a little less trauma for both parties. Hope all is well for everyone! Drop below what you guys would like to see though...smut, flashbacks, or plot? ;)
> 
> Wanted to add: for those who are having trouble visualizing the main level of the Chateau, Treasures in Las Vegas is probably the best point of reference for it; chic, luxurious, a touch of sin.
> 
> -Weezy


	6. Chapter 6

**Hermione’s POV**

_The ground beneath Hermione was cold, an unforgiving slab of broken cobblestone and shattered glass. Not even the adrenaline coursing through her veins was enough to warm her extremities, and she shivered against it as she stared wide-eyed towards the woman scowling down on her. Bellatrix Lestrange’s features were almost alien; cheeks too hollow, eyes wild and unnerving. The matted black hair flowed wildly as she sneered down at Hermione, wand positioned above her head. “C’mon, Mudblood, cat’s got your tongue?” Glass shards dug deep into Hermione’s legs as she struggled to rise up, scrambling away from the woman. It didn’t get her far though, a swift kick from a steel toed boot sending her sprawling once more. Her vision was fuzzy and fading in and out of focus, though the look of defiance in those brown orbs did not falter. 17 years on this Earth and nothing had scared her this much so far, though staring down the end of a withered wand, it took everything in her power not to question whether or not death was coming soon. The lanky witch paced the circle in which Hermione lay, like a lion stalking its prey._

_“I’m going to ask you one more time. Where did you get my sword?” she hissed, leaning down close to grab a handful of the younger woman’s hair. Hermione flailed against her, praying that she would be able to reach her wand, though it was no use. Her nails caught flesh as she slashed Bellatrix’s skin, though the woman only tightened her grip on the curled locs. “We found it, just please, let us go!” she screeched, unaware of the rage that was continuing to grow within Bellatrix. Rip. Hermione cried out as she felt the hair rip from her scalp, a chunk falling to the ground. Lestrange cackled at this, stepping back to admire her handwork. Already she could feel blood dripping from the section of scalp that had been pulled, though it was thankfully along the nape of her neck. “Good riddance. Ugly mop of hair on an ugly little girl,” Bellatrix sighed, swatting the locks away as though it were dirt upon her hands._

_“Fuck you,” Hermione growled out, spitting at Bellatrix. Rage flitted across the ghastly woman’s features, and she turned to swiftly land a kick against Hermione’s ribcage. “Filthy, disgusting mudblood,” she shrieked out with each blow, apparently forgetting the wand that rest in her hand; physical violence was all that was on her mind, “What else did you fucking steal from me, huh? You stole my sword, now tell me the truth before I spill your dirty blood in front of your cohorts”. A kick caught her against the hip, her vision fading and ears ringing. She could distantly hear Ron sobbing out for her, straining to reach her, to do anything. “Hermione!” His voice was raw and panicked; she didn’t look that bad did she? No, she wouldn’t break, wouldn’t falter. Once again she attempted to dodge, to rise to her feet. “Tell me, goddammit! Crucio!”_

_Pain filled her body, white hot and unrelenting. It was as though thousands of needles had embedded themselves in her intestines and they were trying to dig their way out. Hermione’s eyes shot open wide as she screamed, writing to get away, begging for help. A flash of white caught her eye through the shocks seeping through her bones, a young man staring at her from the shadows of the chamber. His face was pale with fear, though the sneer that seemed to permanently be plastered to his face remained and he was doing nothing to help her, nothing to stop the pain while her friends were restrained and he himself was free. Bellatrix’s laugh echoed as she repeated the Unforgivable curse over, and over, and over._

_Until it was no longer a female voice._

_The tone was deeper, gravelly in a sense and all of a sudden she was no longer on the floor of a cold chamber but upright, hands behind her back and body tied erect against a solid structure. “Crucio”, the man with dark hair and green eyes whispered, his tone almost lazy as he watched her scream in agony. She recognized this room vividly; Crimson Tavern was not a place one could easily forget. The walls looked almost identical to that of the chamber she had been tortured in all those years ago, though the floor was plush, a deep red carpet. It burned the cuts on her feet, though the pain was minimal in comparison to the agony rocking her body. “Honestly, you did ask for this, didn’t you Kitten?” She couldn’t even protest, for nothing but a scream came out. Hermione’s body fought against the restraints, eyes rolling back in terror, body beginning to shake-_

“Fuck!” 

A yelp escaped her mouth before she even realized what was happening, sunlight beginning to barely peek through the shutters of the humble flat. Hermione’s body was coated in a thin layer of sweat, shaking slightly as she stared solemnly at the lines of the floor. It was just a dream. Nothing more. It’s safe here, it’s warm here, it’s kind here. Even reminding herself the affirmations that tended to keep her grounded wasn’t really enough to jolt her out of the state she was in, only the soft feeling of fur brushing against her hand enough to rouse her from absolute shock. Crookshank’s soft whiskers lightly touched the skin of her hands, and she took the opportunity to scritch him behind the year. 8 years later and he was still by her side; she should have listened to him more, understood that he was trying to warn her against those with ill-intent. Hell, it took Minerva digging up the cat’s pedigree before she recognized he wasn’t an ordinary Persian and instead some sort of Kneazle cross. Well, no ordinary cat lives 20 some-odd years…

“I’m sorry buddy, did I scare you?” she murmured to the large cat, stretching her sore legs out from underneath her. The clock on the wall above her bed, well, sofa, read 6:45AM. A lot earlier than she wanted to be awake but something about trying to fall back asleep after those traumas reared their ugly heads kept her from trying to rest her eyes once more. No, she could at least get a bit of work done before she had to get ready for tonight. Reaching to snatch the faded silver laptop from the coffee table, Hermione settled into an upright position, scooting the computer forward so that the cat could curl up in her lap while she typed. Of course the overgrown creature took this opportunity to curl against her form, purring hard against her abdomen. He knew when she was worked up; his purring away contested the racing of her heart, body attempting to soothe her nerves. A hand went to absentmindedly stroke the soft orange fur as she opened her emails from this week.

Roughly 500. 500 bloody emails about god knows what, sitting unopened in her inbox. 

The Daily Prophet had opened up the ask and answer sections a few years after the war; anything from questions about adventuring in the world of muggles to pseudo-magical remedies to ridiculous illnesses. When she was contacted by Rita Skeeter to interview, she all but told the woman to piss off. Nothing about it felt right, or even logical. Skeeter was a persistent one though, and after six months of chipping away at Hermione’s nerves and patience, she sent her resume in to begin writing for the Prophet. Not long after, she was offered her own columns to publish, bringing forth a new creation: Vent with Violet. The rest was history. 

Opening up an email at random, she scrolled through, debating on whether or not this one was worth answering. Nope. Another one, further down, almost as drab as the first. Finally, the head subject-line “Intimacy” caught her attention, and Hermione couldn’t help but select it. 

_Dear Violet,_

_I’ve been with my fiance for 6 years now and things just seem...well, different. We have tried all sorts of exercises to make things more interesting behind closed doors, but I worry that he’s losing interest; he seems to think that he likes being dominant, but I just don’t feel comfortable in it and he doesn’t feel confident. I miss the days that we were like two dogs in heat and everything felt fun, exciting even! Now it’s just the same thing day in and out. It’s driving a wedge between us; we cannot afford couples counseling, and he would barely budge even if I convinced him, the stubborn bastard. Is there anything you could recommend to help alleviate this “problem”? I just want to have fun with him intimately again._

_From a fan of the column,_

_Gillian._

Easy enough for her to write quickly, and something she was shockingly well-versed in. It took no time at all for Hermione to think of what to say, and she didn’t bother revising the response that she worked on for the woman. While she was personally a fan of exploring every possible variable in terms of spicing up the relationship, such as exploring with other couples or another individual, she got the impression from the phrasing that these two were painfully monogamous. No worries, though, she knew just what may help them in this particular situation. It was what she was paid to do, after all.

_Dearest Gillian,_

_I’m so happy that you got a chance to write in, and I appreciate the readers of WL, V. As for your intimacy dilemmas, I might just have something that could help. I recall you mentioning that your partner enjoys being the dominant one, the one in position of power. While I am not privy to every detail of your love life, I feel as though it is safe to assume that he has stayed in this position of sexual power throughout the entirety of the relationship. Male dominance is something as old as time, to the point where it is almost no longer taboo!_

_One thing I always recommend to women in a position such as yours is to reverse the roles. Men love to be in power, until they get a taste of what it feels like to be powerless, to be left without their defenses. You are going to want to put yourself on a pedestal so to speak; you are in control of the sexual situation and he is subservient. With all change sexually, be sure to take it slow and ALWAYS have a safeword. The key to this shift in power will be trust and communication. Start off slow; make him listen to you. If he touches you without permission, even the traces of his fingertips, reprimand the behavior. Maybe include some light spanking, or tying him up so that you are fully in control. There are some truly spectacular resources out there that can help give you some ideas as to how to really bring this fantasy to life; if I remember correctly, Witch Weekly’s latest volume included some tips (though take some of them with a grain of salt)._ The corners of her mouth uptilted; always had to include some friendly competition with their rival newspaper. Skeeter would likely be barking in her ear about that one.

_And finally, Gillian, make sure you include aftercare after each scene. It is important for both you and your partner to communicate how they felt following a scene, express discomfort, or simply enjoy each other's time. Even if the scenario was only slight when it came to dominance, breaking that power dynamic down so that you both are on the same emotional level following a scene is of the utmost importance. Remember; sexual fantasy can be separated from reality._

_I truly hope this answered your questions._

_With love,_

_Violet._

Hermione’s eyes gazed over the completed response, scanning each line to ensure it was cohesive and open-ended enough to avoid giving somebody incorrect information. Her eyes lingered on certain taglines; punishment, aftercare, reality. It almost always made her cringe looking back on a time when she was unable to separate that fantasy from the real world, though she was making enough progress with her infrequent visits to her psychiatrist that it no longer caused bile to spew from her lips at any mention of it. No, that was no longer her life, and the man with green eyes in her dream was never going to be able to get near her again, she made damn sure of that one. Still though, it was difficult to not let her mind wander, to replay the parts of that point in her life that were disguised as happiness. This was a frequent occurrence; tricking herself into thinking that maybe she was the problem, consciousness whispering that she was the one who deserved every ounce of treatment she received, that she was dramatic or exaggerating what went on behind closed doors. 

That little voice was a liar though. It was a snake, whispering in her ear the false tales that had sent her spiraling not long ago, though it was easily drowned with distractions. Sometimes it was her writing, her work, the card table in the back corner of the Chateau, the beautiful bartender who’s eyes twinkled as she poured the dominatrix shot after shot of the Cherry Firewhisky. Snakes could be drowned, and god damn she would make sure they were. 

**Draco’s POV**

Narcissa Malfoy-Black was just as elegant as she was a decade ago. Her form was tall, lithe, adorned to the hilt with the most recent trends. Compared to a decade ago though, she was almost glowing these days. She smiled more, was more open about her distaste and discomfort with situations. The first to speak out if something was amiss and fiercely protective of those she was close to. It was no surprise when she showed up on Draco’s doorstep with a stern expression, asking, “What the hell did you say to my Pansy?” Blimey, that woman worked fast, must have given his own damn mother an earful before he even woke up this morning. Typical.

Pansy Parkinson had become an honorary Black following the war, following the loss of her own family. A brother that fought for a cause that he didn’t know was futile, killed in the courtyard where he had practiced Quidditch all those years. He was almost completed with his O.W.L.S. Her parents were sentenced to Azkaban, mother killing herself within the first week and father dying at the hands of a cellmate. Within one year, she had lost all of those close to her, all of her blood family. Stepping into their place was Narcissa, freshly divorced and trying her very hardest to get away from the clutches of the Malfoy Manor. It sold at auction within days, as if it was some sort of antique or monument. In a way though, it was, and it took Narcissa under a week to find herself a cottage in London that she now called home. 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as the taller woman shoved by him, crossing her arms and allowing the scowl to muddy her timeless features. “Mother, it was nothing-” She was cutting him off before he could even get out his side of the story, to explain the argument. He really couldn’t say much though, Pansy certainly had NOT disclosed her profession to her adopted mother. As far as the elder Black knew, Pansy was an accountant working at Gringotts behind the scenes. “It’s why I’m never at the front desk! They let me do all the work I need to from home,” Pansy had once chirped, earning a raised brow from Draco and a swift kick under the table in response. “If it was ‘nothing’ then why did I get a call at 8 o’clock this morning about your behavior? How often does she call me to fret about whatever issues you have? I’ll tell you, never.” Her hand raised to tuck a strand of blond hair behind her ear, a sudden movement that warranted a flinch from Draco. Even after years of her never laying a hand on him, he still flinched at any movement. She had never shielded the blows Lucius had dealt, and everything in him growing up screamed that she would do the same thing. 

Noticing this reaction, her features softened, cupping his cheeks as she pressed a kiss atop his brow. He wrinkled his nose a bit though he did not pull away; this was therapeutic for her, a way of saying sorry that she had done a million times before. “I promise, it was just an argument after I showed up to Gringotts unannounced.” An easy enough lie, enough to shield his friend and mother from the cold hard reality of what had actually happened. A lie that didn’t mention tears or screaming, or bringing Pansy’s new girlfriend into the mix. Narcissa’s hand reached to tuck a strand of blond hair behind his ear, and he could sense the hypercriticism dancing at the tip of her tongue. Appearances still held importance to the woman, and in the last few months, Draco’s short scruff had begun to cover his cheeks and his hair brush over the tips of his ears. A haircut was the last thing on his mind though.  
As quickly as she had grasped him the pressure was gone, sweeping deep into his flat to fuss over god knows what. “I just worry about you two, is all,” she called over her shoulder, beginning to fold a blanket on the back of the couch and straighten the books on his coffee table. “It’s always like mediating the beginning of a war whenever you two fight, explosive…” her voice trailed off, deciding what next to try and tidy in his flat. Draco’s teeth ground together; not only was he not expecting her, but he did not particularly want to visit today to begin with. The apple definitely did not fall far from the tree though, and the woman was as stubborn as she had been when he was growing up. “Would you like some tea, mother?” He offered, knowing damn well that was what she wanted though was too polite to ask. She gave a small nod and appreciated a smile before finding her seat on the couch, hands folded in her lap as she began to run through her week, chattering on.

As much as Draco did love his mother, these visits were frankly obnoxious at this point. It was a habit for her though, checking in on her son like clockwork; she didn’t do that often when he was a kid. Must be making up for lost time, time that she regretted. Occasionally he would offer a nod or murmur of agreement as his mother prattled on, though his mind drifted to the night before. Everything felt...muddy. The apology he was attempting to make, the one he set out to give, absolutely did not stick. If anything, they were back to square one and he was beginning to feel the creeping frustration back into his veins. Hermione obviously still harbored resentment towards him, that was clear, though he couldn’t really blame her. Sure, he didn’t outright apologize, but she should be bright enough to know why he had shown up to the doorstep of room 13. She should have known, why wouldn’t she? The memories were more vivid than they were yesterday; he could feel the shackles on his wrist, the feeling of her teeth against his jaw, the wisps of chocolatey brown hair tickling the nape of his neck. It was enough to bring a blush to his face, and he swore as the scalding water splashed against his wrist.

Narcissa didn’t seem to notice her son’s frustrations, instead opting to wave her wand over the table, wiping it clean. “Are you even listening to me, dear? Astoria and her parents are requesting that we attend dinner at their manor later this weekend.” Draco wiped the remaining droplets with a dish rag, bringing both cups of tea back to where his mother perched. Furrowed eyebrows and a scowl met the regal woman’s bright expression. “I have no interest in speaking with Astoria. She has three brain cells, two of which are working their arse off to keep her breathing.” Narcissa reached to smack her son’s leg, giving a sharp tsk. He didn’t flinch badly this time, it was pretty warranted. “Don’t be crass, Draco, they’re a kind family and of excellent standing in the wizarding community”. Of course they were. They were never Death Eaters, never had their name associated with it; quiet bigots, the lot of them, hell-bent on keeping their breeding true and pure. “They’re insisting, and come to think of it, so am I. How long has it been since I’ve seen you with a girl? Months? Years, even?”.

_Oh if only she knew_. This was getting redundant, Draco resting his hand on his cheek and feigning boredom. The idea of a dinner party with one of the most simple, arrogant families was repulsive and an absolute waste of time. “You know I’ve been working-” the look Narcissa shot him was both pleading and firm. She had the best intentions, though possibly for the wrong reasons. Unless Pansy was even planning on having children, which she wasn’t, she wasn’t getting any grandkids anytime soon. He couldn’t say no to her though, couldn’t see her hopeful expression fall. “What time?” He sighed, ignoring the gleeful clasp of the older woman’s hands. ‘“7pm sharp on Friday. Oh, Draco, it’s going to be truly lovely. I promise you’ll enjoy it, they’ve redecorated their whole home and even hired a new chef, this time from France!” Fuck. A dinner party, how lovely. 

The remainder of her stay, his mother spent the time venting about the drama within her inner friend group, the gossip of those in the wizarding world while Draco flipped through the cases he was covering this week. The names of defendants blurred together, drug cases, robberies, all sorts of offenses. One case involved a massive drug raid, with the suspect having enough coin to pay for a private defender. The offer was enough to make Draco’s eyebrow cock, and he placed a small mark at the top of the file to remember to go back to it. Time flew by, and it wasn’t until the clock stuck 2 that his mother began to gather her belongings to leave. 

“Don’t forget-”

“7pm. Friday. I won’t.”

Narcissa ignored his clipped response, cupping his cheek and gently running the pad of her thumb against the rough skin. He leaned into the comforting touch, closing his eyes slightly. “Love you, mum,” he sheepishly said, earning a smile before the woman was gone in an instant. The day was still full of opportunities to get his work done, possibilities of productivity. Unfortunately though, he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything of the sort. The couch was too inviting, too comforting. Draco plopped down against it, drawing his lip computer from the bag that essentially lived beneath the coffee table to scroll through it. It was shameful how quickly his mother’s visit had disappeared from his mind as it wandered back to the glowing lights of the Chateau. He was much too flustered to really appreciate its depths, and his fingers flew across the keys as he typed in the URL and was directed to their website. A list of photos, devoid of any patrons, was compiled on the edge of the search bar.

From the photos alone, the Chateau was deceptively large. He knew the front desk well enough, saw the staircase leading him up to that second level that he had stalked down so boldly before. The main level was composed of several large stages, primarily lit with soft red lighting. Everything in this building was various shades of crimson or fuschia, blending into one as the lights twinkled on the walls. Strangely enough, there were no actual chairs, only lush couches of velvet and leather; it must be expensive to upkeep. A solid oak bar stood tall along the back right of the room, which appeared to be hexagonal. Across from that was a line of card tables; blackjack, poker, slot machines. Every conventional, sinful task could be completed just on the lower floor. He recognized certain parts of it’s layout from the snapshots he had seen from Pansy. His index finger hovered over the booking portion of the website, almost unconsciously as he debated exploring it once more. This visit would be for an apology, to talk, he promised himself, though he wasn’t quite sure if that promise was genuine. 

The page opened with a single click, and Jade’s tag was almost at the top this time through, the outline of that damned flogger beckoning him. It was damn near addicting just observing, the phantom stinging so vivid against his skin that he was almost back in that room. It was terrifying, thrilling, enraging what he had been deduced to. However...it was addicting. A drug that he had tried once and was feeling the symptoms of withdrawal. Maybe it was the implications, maybe the actions. _Definitely not her,_ he assured himself. Still though, the 10 o’clock time slot available for Friday was almost impossible to pass up. Apology. This was for an apology, for a discussion. Nothing more or less, and in an instant, 13 galleons was deposited as a holding fee and his appointment was booked with The Lioness of the Chateau.

For a while, he simply stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keys as his mind went blank. He couldn’t stop himself from booking that appointment and feared his lack of hesitance, his inability to resist checking that box and letting the income pour out of his account. More than anything though, he feared the effect that being subservient had on him. The power shift had consumed him for the better half of the day, so when he opened a private tab, it didn’t surprise him what he had typed into the search bar. It didn’t surprise him when he drew his wand to pull the curtains closed, locking the door and the deadbolt about him.

**“Dominatrix.”**

**“Female domination.”**

**“Male slave”**

Each search yielded witches in total power, subs wearing hoods and masks of latex, their identity unknown. These hoods were intriguing, often matching the gloves that the women wore, elbow length and tight. The feeling of almost suffocating, of feeling the claustrophobic hood against one’s eyes and mouth seemed...thrilling. Draco slid his robe off, pulling the long pants down to his ankles with his boxers. His cock was hard and twitching after the first search, though it was damn near throbbing at this point, pre-cum staining the abandoned undergarments. His hand absentmindedly stroked it as he scrolled through each video, not even close to relieving the pressure that was tight against his abdomen. It annoyed him how even when he had narrowed his results, nothing was seeming to catch his eye.

Until something did.

A thumbnail of a tall woman with dark brown curls, a long coiled whip around her shoulders. If he didn’t know what his mistress had looked like so vividly, it almost looked just like her. The mane of waves was large and cascaded down her shoulders, resting upon the latex corset that pressed her exposed breast upwards. The video began, a crack of the long whip against a man standing against the wall. He was in a sitting position, bit-gag keeping his mouth open as he endured what Draco learned was called “impact play”. Anytime the whip struck his raw skin, a muffled “Thank you, mistress” was uttered through the gag. “Such a good little toy,” she purred, voice much more gravelly than Hermione’s though with hints of the same taunting tone she had used. Draco’s hand began to stroke with much more fervor than it had prior, thumb pressing against the sensitive underside of his shaft as soft gasps left his parted lips. “Beg for me, sweets”, she demanded, abandoning her tool to approach him, squeezing his testicles with enough force that Draco could see it on his face.

It wasn’t the blubbering man that had this effect on him; no, it was the shine in the woman’s eyes, the sharp smile and those goddamn locks of hair. His eyes closed as he remembered her scent; honey and basil. His body twitched as he resided himself to thrusting into his own palms. He had done this to her just a day ago, needy and desperate for release. “Fuck, please…” he begged aloud in a soft whine, thumbing the pre-cum over the head of his cock as he arched against the couch. “You love begging for me, don’t you, bitch? You love begging for me to fuck that tight little ass of yours,” the woman’s voice purred through the screen. He had heard almost those same words, could almost feel Hermione’s hands stroking him before she had taken him. 

It was enough to send him careening over the edge. Pleasure wracked his form as he came, painting his sweat-coated stomach with semen as it pulsed freely from him. Wave after wave came, like little electric shots as he emptied himself in his palms and stomach. Even the gentle brush of his own fingers caused the hypersensitive organ to twitch upon touch, and it took what felt like hours to recover, lost in the bliss of his own orgasm. It wasn’t anything like the Chateau though. It was emptier, less of a thrill than he had personally experienced. It dawned on him as soon as he had fully come-to, slamming into him as the realization became clear: this may be the new normal for him, unable to have the same reaction to any other types of imagery. She had beautifully ruined that for him, replacing it with her own skill set and talents. 

It was impossible to remain neutral with that revelation; it was infuriating, terrifying. This may be what he desires now and it was all because of _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to make this next few set of chapters consistent (weekly) though I do apologize if I'm a bit behind ^^;. I originally intended for this monster chapter to be a set of two, but I definitely had fun with it and got carried away. No matter though...the "Friday" section is going to be delicious and I am so excited to share what I have so far with you guys!
> 
> Per usual, I hope all is well and you guys are kicking ass this week. Let me know below what you would like to see in the next few chapters; for smut, I am more than happy to take kink requests (and if I don't recognize it specifically, I'd be willing to research it and do my best to present <3).
> 
> -Weezy


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